


in my head

by ymorton



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 01:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: tommy visits lovett in LA, late 2012.the original premise of this fic was what if tommy got muscles but then all of tommy's muscles had feelings, so here we are!





	in my head

**Author's Note:**

> this is all fake and fictional. please do not share with anyone mentioned or involved. we're all just trying to have fun on the titanic rn!!!!! be chill! 
> 
> this fic takes place in the same verse as [feel at home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11061207)
> 
> title from lorde's supercut. COME HOME TO HIS HEART, LOVETT!!! 
> 
> come say hi on tumblr at podsavemysoul!

“Oh, fuck off!” Lovett yells through the open car window, which is a nice greeting when Tommy’s coming off two hours sleep and a twelve hour workday and a six hour flight. Lovett’s leaning over in the driver’s seat of his giant black SUV, big sunglasses over his eyes like a real California asshole. His hair’s longer and he’s gained some weight in his cheeks and arms. He looks solid and real and he’s _tan_ , a spray of freckles over his pink nose. Tommy’s so tired he can’t stop grinning like an idiot as he tosses his bag in the backseat and climbs into the car.

“Jesus, Tommy,” Lovett says, like they were mid-conversation, pulling away from the curb with a screech of tires. Tommy pulls frantically at his seatbelt. “I know you’ve been heartbroken since I left but you didn’t need to take out _all_ your angst on the fucking gym. Save some protein powder for the rest of us.” 

Tommy clicks his belt closed and slides his sunglasses down onto his eyes. He can’t stop fucking smiling. “Is there a compliment somewhere in there, Lovett?” 

“No,” Lovett says promptly. “No compliment. Why should I compliment you for lifting weights? A monkey could lift weights. The real question is why haven’t you solved the Middle East crisis yet. Then I’d be impressed.” 

“Good to see you too, asshole.” Tommy laughs, knocks his head back against the seat. The sun feels incredible and he sticks a hand out of the open window. “How’s LA?” 

“I’m too mad to make small talk right now. I can’t believe you look like that, Tommy. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’ve been eating exclusively Del Taco for the past year and you look like that.” 

Tommy snorts, looks over at Lovett. Lovett’s merging into traffic, one hand on the wheel, not even checking his blind spot. Jesus. 

“You still can’t drive for shit.” 

Lovett takes his hand off the wheel to give him the finger and Tommy yelps.

“Jon!” 

“Calm down. I haven’t crashed yet.” 

“Didn’t you hit a parked car a couple months ago? You sent Favs a picture.” 

“That bastard. That was confidential.” Lovett groans as they hit traffic on the freeway and slow to a near stop. “This fucking city. I _hate_ coming to LAX.” 

“I could’ve taken a cab.” 

“No, no. Don’t be stupid. You’re only here for two days, I’m not gonna make you sit and make conversation with some cabbie. The cabbies are weird here, Tommy. They’re too happy. Like there’s no way you’re actually that excited about sitting in LA traffic for hours. I don’t like it. Yell at me and pretend you don’t speak English when I ask you to stop for drunk food, that’s how I know it’s real.” 

“Weird cabbies, shitty traffic,” Tommy says, turning his head out the window. He shuts his eyes and inhales. The air smells like gasoline but it still feels good. “Why do you keep telling me to move here again?” 

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Lovett sighs. “The weather, I guess. Everyone loves the fucking weather. I wouldn’t mind a fucking season every once in a while. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to drink some hot chocolate.” 

“You look tan,” Tommy says, peering over at him. 

“Don’t look at me. I look terrible.” Lovett adjusts his sunglasses on his sunburnt nose. “I think I’m depressed. I tried to go to the gym the other day and instead I laid on the couch for four hours, fully dressed. Like with my sneakers on.”

“Sounds nice,” Tommy says wistfully. 

“Yeah, you should try it. Instead of spending every free moment lifting cars off children or whatever the fuck you’ve been doing to look like that.” 

“Mostly car-lifting, yeah. Sometimes I climb trees to rescue kittens. Really works my core.”

Lovett barks a laugh and peers in his rearview mirror, lifting his glasses to see better. “Can’t believe you got time off.” 

“Me neither,” Tommy says, shutting his eyes again. Two days, and then he’s back. He was in Germany all last week and his emails are a fucking mess but he’ll think about that later. “My mom’s pissed I didn’t go up to Boston, so this better be a good trip.” 

“Honestly, you should’ve gone to Boston. I have nothing to offer. I go to work and come home and eat tacos. Last summer I did a lot of coke but I think I’m mostly over that.” 

“I like tacos,” Tommy says amiably. He ignores the coke comment. He’s heard it all from Favs, who was about ready to fly out and have an intervention. 

“If only you weren’t such a boring government asshole, we could get high.” Lovett slides his sunglasses down, mouth setting. He’s prickly and won’t give an inch but Tommy knows how to deal with him when he’s like that. 

“I can get drunk,” he says. “In fact, I’d love to get drunk.” 

Lovett smiles, just a twitch of his mouth. “Let’s get drunk then, Tommy Vietor.” 

It’s been a long time since he heard Lovett say his full name like that. Tommy melts a little for it just like he always did, tipping his head back against the seat. 

“It’s so nice out,” he says, instead of _Jesus I’m glad I’m here_. 

Lovett scoffs. “It’s miserably hot most of the time. And the smog, Tommy. I haven’t used my inhaler since 8th grade when I had pneumonia and I’m tempted to re-up my prescription. The air feels, like, _thick_.” 

Tommy smiles, closing his eyes. Lovett’s such a whiny little prick. Tommy missed him. 

“Tommy? Are you listening to me? Don’t you dare fucking fall asleep, it’s like 6:30-“ 

Tommy opens his heavy eyelids and lifts his sunglasses to show his eyes are open. “I’m listening, Lovett.” 

“Good.” Lovett cranks up the A/C and hits the accelerator. 

\---

They pick up dinner at a carnicería in Lovett’s neighborhood and sprawl out over the couch like old times. Like DC times. Lovett’s apartment is a fucking mess but Tommy’s been in a cold, sterile hotel room for the past week in Berlin, shivering under three layers of blankets because he couldn’t figure out the fucking thermostat. He doesn’t mind the mess. 

He’s shoveling in his last taco, starving, when Lovett pushes himself up to get them both another beer. Tommy watches him when Lovett’s back is turned. Lovett’s in gym shorts and a baggy hoodie but when he comes back in, beers in one hand and a half-empty bottle of vodka in the other, he’s pulled the hoodie off, leaving an old Williams t-shirt. His wardrobe clearly hasn’t changed in LA. 

“Here,” he says, handing over a beer and the vodka.

“You’re not gonna mix it with anything?” 

“Pshh, no. Get on my level, Vietor.” Lovett takes the bottle from his hands and takes a long swig. He makes a face and gulps his beer to chase it, hands the bottle back. 

“We’re too old for this,” Tommy mutters, but he does the same, wincing. It’s nice vodka but still, it burns. No one takes shots of fucking vodka after freshman year of college. “I feel like I’m being hazed.” 

“We’re getting drunk, Tommy. That’s what you wanted.” 

“There are other ways, is all I’m saying. Easier ways.” 

“Stop complaining.” 

“You’re such a good host,” Tommy says, forcing himself to take another shot. “Making me chug vodka from the bottle and telling me to stop complaining.” 

Lovett’s standing over him, and he takes the bottle, tips it to his mouth. When he puts it down he’s breathing hard, and he shivers through his whole body. “You probably should’ve just gone to Boston.” 

He’s been saying some variation of that since he picked Tommy up, Tommy’s noticed, but he doesn’t comment, just reaches for the vodka. He could say what he was thinking in the car, _I’m glad I’m here_ , but Lovett would probably get weird about it and Tommy doesn’t want stuff to get weird. It got a little - weird right before Lovett left. Tommy made it weird. 

Lovett sets the bottle down with a clunk, flops back down next to Tommy. Their legs press together and Lovett looks over at him. 

“So, Tommy,” he says. Tommy feels trapped by his gaze, like Lovett read his mind and saw Tommy was thinking about when Lovett left DC. 

“So, Jon,” he says, because it’s always easy to follow Lovett’s lead when he can’t think of anything else to say. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Lovett asks, but he’s not looking into Tommy’s eyes anymore. 

Tommy laughs. A girlfriend. Tommy works and sleeps and works out, that’s pretty much it. “No girlfriend. Don’t you think I would’ve told you?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much you tell me.” Lovett seems very unconcerned. Tommy knows his tells, though; the hand tapping on his jiggling knee. “That’s probably good, though. That’d probably cut into your gym time. Relationships are time-consuming.” 

“Do you?” Tommy asks. “Did LA turn you straight? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” 

Lovett gives a mock shudder of horror. “Jesus. Never.” He sticks a fingernail in his mouth. “I’m basically a monk.” 

“Me too,” Tommy admits, and Lovett gives him a doubtful look. “Seriously! I barely have time to jerk off.” 

“The Tommy I know and love always finds time to get off,” Lovett says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Tommy sit up, alert. Oh. 

Lovett’s playing with the hem of his shorts. “The Tommy I know and love _makes_ time to get off. The Tommy I know and-” 

“The Tommy you know and love sounds like a horny bastard,” Tommy says, laughing, because if he doesn’t cut Lovett off he could go on like that forever. He takes a chance, puts his hand over Lovett’s on his thigh. “Are you gonna help me get off, Lovett? Is that where this is going?” 

“This is like terrible porn dialogue,” Lovett says, tongue-between-his-teeth laughing and looking embarrassed, but he climbs onto Tommy’s lap. He settles his legs to either side of Tommy’s thighs, looks down at him. 

“Hey,” he says, almost shyly, but Lovett's never shy. 

“Still kinda porny,” Tommy says, snorting. He imitates Lovett’s voice. “ _Hey_.” 

Lovett pinches his nipple through his shirt, twists until Tommy’s cursing and shoving his hand away. “Take your stupid too-small shirt off before I rip your nipple off. Is that porny enough for you?” 

“What kind of porn do you watch,” Tommy grumbles, but he complies, pulls his ( _not_ too small) shirt off and drops it on the floor. He settles back against the couch, watches Lovett watch him. 

“Jesus,” Lovett murmurs. He touches Tommy’s arms, and then his chest, digging his hands in. Tommy’s nipples are hard under his palms and Tommy’s breathing hard, just from Lovett sitting in his lap and stroking him all over. 

“Like- _Jesus_.” Lovett runs his warm hands down to his abs. “Your fucking body, Tommy.” 

Tommy’s neck goes hot and he shifts his hips. “Shut up,” he says. 

“You look like the after picture in one of those shitty infomercials for some exercise machine scam. You look like a fucking Bowflex ad.” 

“Weirdly specific,” Tommy says, still pink. 

“I watch a lot of infomercials.” Lovett’s playing with the waistband of his jeans, fitting his fingers down them until Tommy shudders hard. “Take these off.” 

“You’re on top of me, I can’t,” Tommy says, laughing, feeling tipsy and dazed. Lovett’s warm on his lap, pleasantly heavy. He slides his hand under Lovett’s shirt and Lovett wriggles away. 

“Ugh, don’t.” 

“What?” Tommy grips his hip, fingers digging in. Lovett’s skin is hot and solid so he puts his other hand on Lovett’s other side to feel more of it, pressing his thumb into Lovett’s stomach. He can feel Lovett breathing when he does that. 

“Don’t be a dick,” Lovett says, pulling at Tommy’s wrists. Tommy lets him go, confused. “We haven’t all spent the last year crying at the gym. Some of us cry in our homes like normal people.”  

Tommy _has_ actually cried at the gym in the past year, several times, but he’s not telling Lovett that. He just starts pushing Lovett’s t-shirt up, spreading his fingers wide on Lovett’s torso. It’s so good just to feel him. It’s been a long time. “Can you shut up and get naked?” 

“You’re a freak,” Lovett snaps, belly shuddering under Tommy’s hands, but he takes over defiantly, shoving Tommy’s hands away and pulling his own shirt off. 

Tommy takes a second to take him in. Lovett’s chest and stomach are pale compared to his tan limbs, a line of dark hair down the slope of his belly into his shorts. There’s a tender pink stretchmark on his hip and Tommy touches it with two fingers. 

Lovett leans down and kisses him hard to distract him. Tommy doesn’t mind, keeps his fingers there and slides his hand around Lovett’s hip, then down, lower, under the band of his shorts until he can feel his dick, half-hard, hair curling soft against his palm. 

Lovett shoves his hips forward greedily but Tommy doesn’t stop there, gropes Lovett’s balls and then even further back. Lovett groans against his mouth and Tommy sucks on his tongue until Lovett’s rolling his hips unconsciously, hand kneading into Tommy’s shoulder. 

He pulls back and hisses when Tommy starts rubbing two fingers against him, pressing hard. “Jesus, Tommy.”

“How long’s it been?” 

He keeps rubbing, not trying to go in, just stroking him there. Lovett drops his head to Tommy’s shoulder, back bowing. 

“A while,” he says, voice high and breathless. 

Tommy kisses his neck, opens his mouth against the soft slope of his shoulder. He slides a thumb against Lovett’s perineum and presses into the skin, liking the way Lovett whines and grinds down against his fingers. “What’s a while?” 

“Why do you care?” Lovett asks, sharp and breathless, and then he says, “The guy was a dick and we hooked up at a gross club, so. Don’t make me think about it.” 

Tommy doesn’t like that, at all, but he doesn’t say anything. He moves his hand up, cups Lovett’s balls again. Lovett leans all his weight on Tommy’s shoulder and groans, but he doesn’t stop talking. It takes a lot to make him stop talking. 

“I’ve had - ph- phone sex with Ronan but I’m not letting him fly out here til I lose ten pounds.”

Tommy must make a face, because Lovett straightens up and demands, “What?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says. “Whatever. His loss.”

Lovett rolls his eyes. “Oh, Tommy. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.”

Tommy feels too exposed. He knows Lovett’s relationship with Ronan is none of his fucking business, because every conversation they have about it ends with Lovett yelling that at him. Tommy’s stopped trying. It’s not like he’s a shining example of stability and good judgment.

“Just saying,” he says defensively. 

“Of course you’re just saying, because you’re a Nice Boy.” Tommy can _hear_ the capital letters. “Do we really want to have another conversation about this? Like is that what you want to spend your precious time in LA doing?” 

“No, we don’t,” Tommy says, forcing a laugh. “I want to spend my precious time in LA fucking you.” 

Lovett chews his lip, stares at him. “Fine,” he says abruptly, sliding off Tommy’s thighs. “Let’s go.” 

Tommy sits there for a minute, hard-on pressing at the zip of his jeans. He’s dazed like he always is after a conversation with Lovett. Sometimes it’s like they’re the same person, so similar it’s cloistering, anticipating the other’s next move so easily it seems pointless to actually make it. Sometimes it’s like he doesn’t know him at all. 

“Tommy,” Lovett says, challenging, like he's daring Tommy to change his mind. Tommy's definitely not changing his fucking mind. He adjusts himself in his jeans and follows Lovett up. 

\---

Tommy dozes off for a while after, on his belly in bed with Lovett scrolling through his phone next to him. He comes awake when Lovett runs a hand slowly over the muscles in his back, but Lovett snatches it away when he sees Tommy open his eyes. 

“Sorry,” he says, staring back down at his phone. Tommy doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for waking him up or for touching him. Lovett used to get cagey about that sometimes, like he wasn’t allowed to touch him when they weren’t actually fucking, like the time period of acceptable touching started at hard-on and ended at orgasm. Some asshole probably made him feel like that once and it stuck. Tommy won’t bring it up, though. Lovett’s not looking for a therapist. 

“S’fine,” Tommy mumbles. He rolls onto his side facing Lovett. “Your bed’s comfy.” 

“Thanks, I spend a lot of time in it.” 

Tommy breathes a laugh and kisses Lovett’s arm. Lovett pulls it away and Tommy pulls a pillow under his head, feeling chagrined. 

“I might leave LA,” Lovett says, out of nowhere. Tommy looks at him, surprised, and Lovett lets out an annoyed little breath. “I mean, not yet. And obviously not if 1600 Penn becomes the new Office and I’m vaulted to superstardom. But I don’t know. I don’t think it will.”

He frowns. “I don’t think it’s that good. Or that funny. But I don’t know how to, like, make it better. I don’t even know if I have the capacity to make it better.” 

“I bet it’s good.” 

Lovett just chews his lip. 

“The stuff you send Favs is hilarious,” Tommy says, propping himself up on his elbow. 

“He lets you read that?” 

“Sometimes.” Usually only by accident. Tommy wants to ask Jon to forward him every single email he gets from Lovett but he’s pretty sure that would sound fucking crazy. Instead he waits and takes what he can get. One time he picked up Jon’s phone after Jon fell asleep on the sofa with his feet in Tommy’s lap, but he didn’t know Jon’s passcode and he immediately felt creepy. 

Lovett hums and continues. “Honestly, LA is a soulless hellhole unless everyone knows you and loves you, which they don’t. Yet.”

He looks over at Tommy, raising an eyebrow. “But DC is still terrible, so I can’t go back there. Under the shiny new muscles you’re obviously completely fucking miserable and you’ve checked your email every ten minutes since you got here.” 

Tommy chokes a laugh, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. His Blackberry is currently tucked under his elbow so he really can’t argue with him. “That obvious?” 

Lovett just hums. “So where the fuck am I gonna go? Maybe flyover country’s not as bad as it seems. I heard there are a few gay people there. I could settle down on a farm and write a book like Al Franken, eventually reemerge from the shadows to run for Senate, maybe meet a hot young cowboy-”  

“How about Iowa?” Tommy says, sticking a hand under his head and sighing. “I know Iowa like the back of my hand. It’s actually nice.” 

“Oh fuck off,” Lovett says. “ _Iowa_. I have the worst memories in Iowa. All I did in Iowa was drink Red Bull and cry. New Hampshire, now, that’s a real state-“ 

Tommy snorts. “4 years later and you’re still not over it, huh?” 

“Never,” Lovett says stubbornly, but he’s smiling a little. He rolls over and rests a hand on Tommy’s bare thigh, fingers tapping. He traces over a vein and stops. “It’s pretty fucking weird, isn’t it? How we were basically in the same place at the same time for like a year and we didn’t even know each other. And you would’ve slit my throat if you had the chance. And then we _lived_ together, and like, worked in the fucking White House together. Now that's a story.” 

He laughs to himself, face soft, and Tommy looks over at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Jon Lovett.” 

Jon glares at him. “Shut up.” 

“That was _romantic_. That was like a Craigslist missed connection.”

“I’m a writer now, Tommy. I tell stories.” Lovett preens. “That’s a good story. Of course it ends with both of us dying tragic deaths alone on opposite coasts, but it starts off good.” 

“Star-crossed lovers on the campaign trail. Missing each other by mere moments-” 

“Okay, calm down, Tommy. You were with Ka- um, straight back then. Plus, the whole would’ve-slit-my-throat thing.” Lovett squeezes Tommy’s thigh, pushing himself up in bed. “Are you hungry? I don’t have any protein bars.” 

“Shut the fuck up about protein,” Tommy laughs. “I want a burger. Or a Frosty from Wendy’s. Fuck it, I want a burger _and_ a Frosty.” 

Lovett crows triumphantly, like his main goal since Tommy got into town was forcing carbs down his throat. “Yes, Tommy. _Yes_. I’ll take you on the _real_ tour of LA. The best fast food. The places I hit up at 3 AM when I’m driving home from work and feeling empty inside.” 

He’s fumbling for his shirt, bent over. His thighs look good. Tommy reaches out to smack Lovett’s bare ass with the back of his hand, and Lovett stumbles away from him, turning around and laughing.

“Fuck off.” He sees his boxers and grabs for them. 

“You fuck off,” Tommy says dumbly, flopping his head back down and grinning like an idiot at the ceiling. This is all so familiar and feels so good. Tommy knows it’s going to feel like shit again pretty soon but he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

“C’mon, up,” Lovett says, bossy. He’s in sweatpants and his Williams shirt and Tommy has to stare at the ceiling for a moment more and not Lovett, because his brain is trying really hard to remind him why this is going to suck soon. 

“Tommyyyy.” 

“Coming,” Tommy says, exhaling slowly. He draws in a long breath, lets it out and lifts off the bed, reaching for his boxers. His shirt must still be in the other room. 

“Ugh, even how you sit up is hot now,” Lovett says, annoyed. “You didn’t even use your hands, fuck you.” 

Tommy snorts, rubbing a hand over his chest. “Sorry.” 

“You should be. Get yourself decent and let’s go.” 

He wheels around and Tommy follows, hopping into his boxers. 

\---

They get burgers and Frosties and eat them at a table outside Wendy’s. The night’s balmy, a soft breeze blowing, and it feels weirdly nostalgic, like the times Tommy’s dad took him for ice cream after Little League games when he was a kid. Tommy feels sleepy and full and Lovett’s foot keeps brushing his under the table and without warning his eyes prickle hot.

Jesus, his fucking brain. He ducks his head and sucks on a spoonful of Frosty to wash down the lump in his throat. Lovett’s too busy talking about some writer’s room drama to notice. 

“- so then, they tried to sneak the line in on the table read, and I was like- Tommy?” 

Lovett’s looking at him expectantly. There’s ice cream at the side of his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Tommy says. “I’m tired.” 

Lovett’s face softens a little. He looks down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We can go back to my place. The couch pulls out.” 

Tommy doesn’t know why he’d have to sleep on the couch when he just fucked Lovett in his bed, but he shrugs and unfolds himself from the table, following Lovett back to the car. 

Back at the apartment, he trails Lovett into the kitchen and watches him grab a La Croix out of the fridge. 

“There’s sheets in the closet,” Lovett says, taking a sip. He offers it to Tommy and Tommy shakes his head. “I have an extra pillow.” 

Tommy looks down, at Lovett’s dirty countertop. He traces a finger over what’s probably spilled Diet Coke, gone sticky. “Can I just sleep with you?” 

Lovett gives him a startled look over the top of the La Croix can. “If you want. I guess.” 

Tommy nods, and Lovett sets the can down and brushes past him towards the bedroom. Tommy stares at the La Croix for a minute, so tired his eyes keep going in and out of focus. Don’t make it weird, Vietor. It's only two days. 

“Tommy?” he hears, muffled from the other room. “Come help me change the sheets, they’re gross.” 

“One sec.” He shakes himself awake and follows Lovett into the bedroom. 

\---

He wakes up at 5 AM and can’t fall back asleep. Lovett’s a lump under the duvet next to him, hair curling dark against the pillow and his face smushed into the sheets. It’s so familiar it feels weird, eerie, like they’ve jumped back in time a year and a half and Tommy’ll open the curtains to see the Trader Joe’s across from their apartment in Foggy Bottom. 

But no. There’s California sunshine slanting golden through the blinds and Lovett doesn’t live with him anymore. It’s weird to feel nostalgic about that, because some of the worst, lowest days of his life happened in that apartment. 

Some of the best days too, though, the rare lazy ones spent with Lovett playing WoW and day-drinking and making out on the couch, but Tommy knows if he starts thinking about all that, things will get weird. He rolls off the bed and onto the carpet, starts doing push-ups. His mind goes blissfully blank after a minute, arms burning. 

He’s on his third minute of a plank when Lovett’s head pops over the edge of the bed. Lovett squints at him, already annoyed. 

“Oh, Jesus.” 

“Morning,” Tommy says, voice strained. He shifts his hands on the carpet, doesn’t let his hips rise. 

“Good morning, Tommy.” Lovett steps over him and stalks into the bathroom, shutting the door. Tommy comes down out of the plank, rolls onto his back. His shirt’s sticking to his stomach with sweat already. 

The toilet flushes and Lovett opens the door, stares down at him. 

“My bedroom is not a gym, Tommy.” 

Tommy snorts. “Sorry.” 

“Is this seriously how you wake up every morning? Good god.”

“It helps,” Tommy says. “With, you know. Brain stuff.” 

He doesn’t say any more than that. Lovett can read between the lines.

“And you look hot,” Lovett says after a second of silence. “Win-win.” 

Tommy snorts. “Thanks.” 

Lovett steps over him again, and Tommy catches his ankle gently with one hand but lets go as Lovett flops back down into bed. “Do you have to go for a run or go do Crossfit or something now? Or can you come back to bed?” 

Tommy twists his head to look at him. “I can- I can come back to bed.” 

“Come back to bed then,” Lovett says, swallowing. 

Tommy processes that for a second and then scrambles up onto his knees, balancing himself on the edge of the mattress.

“There he is,” Lovett says, propping himself up on his elbows. Tommy reaches a hand out to grip his thigh, squeezing hard. “C’mere.” 

Tommy’s still breathing hard and Lovett looks so good against the white sheets.

“Jon,” he says, mouth dry. 

Lovett blinks at him, brow furrowing. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Tommy shakes himself. “Nothing, just. I’m glad I’m here.”

Lovett’s face shifts through a couple of expressions and lands on carefully neutral. He’s so easy to read, though. Tommy forgot. Everyone in DC keeps the same look on their face at all times: blank and mild, unless they’re angry, and then it’s blank and grim. 

Tommy doesn’t want to go back. The realization hits him hard in the chest and the guilt floods in after. He has to go back. He has to. He doesn’t get to just fuck off the way Lovett did. 

“Me too,” Lovett says. Tommy doesn’t want him to say anything else, doesn’t want this to spiral. He can’t watch Lovett all soft in bed, eyes still squinty with sleep, saying he wants Tommy to be here. Lovett wants Tommy here for a weekend, for a distraction, for someone to tell him he’s still funny and cute and smart. Tommy wants- he wants-

He shuts that thought down and crawls into bed, over Lovett, pushing his thighs open. Lovett laughs up at him. 

“Jesus, Tommy.” 

Tommy kisses him hard, settles between Lovett’s thighs and lets Lovett feel his weight. Lovett groans into his mouth, hand tangled in the short hair at the back of Tommy’s neck. He’s starting to get hard in his boxers. Tommy can feel him when he pushes his thigh between Lovett’s legs and grinds down. 

“Tommy-“ Lovett breathes, and he throws his arm over his eyes when Tommy reaches down between them and wraps a hand around him. “Fuck. Keep doing that.” 

Tommy strokes him hard, hand twisting, watches his open mouth below the arm hiding his face. His lips, fuck. Tommy missed his lips, and the stubborn jut of his chin. He really will cry in a minute if he keeps thinking about it, so he slides down Lovett’s body and works his boxers down his hips. 

“Tommy,” Lovett gasps. He tries to lift one leg and Tommy holds him down, hands spread on his thighs. His dick twitches hard at that and Tommy feels the muscles in his legs strain as he tests Tommy’s grip. 

“Oh- god, Tommy.” 

His voice breaks and Tommy has to press his face to Lovett’s thigh for a second to get himself together, but then he’s up, sniffing hard. Lovett doesn’t notice, face still covered. He just moans when Tommy finally gets his mouth on him, kissing the head first, wet and salty against his tongue, and then sliding his mouth down. 

It’s been a long time since Tommy did this. He’s self-conscious about it at first, trying to breathe around the weight of Lovett’s cock and keep him pinned at the same time, and then Lovett slides his hands into Tommy’s hair and Tommy shivers hard, sinks into it. 

“That’s so good,” Lovett says, voice shaky. “Oh my god, Tommy.” 

The words feel so good. Tommy’s grateful. He makes a sound around Lovett’s dick and Lovett gets it, strokes his hair and keeps talking. 

“You look so good, Tommy,” he says, low, fast like it’s something he’s not allowed to say. “You’re so- fucking beautiful like that. Jesus. Tommy, that feels- that- that’s so good. God. Don’t stop, don’t stop.” 

He’s dragging his stubby nails against Tommy’s scalp and he’s breathless. 

“Tommy, _Tommy_ , god.” Lovett groans. “So good-“ 

He keeps it up, babbling until he’s on the edge and then he’s wordless, whimpering when Tommy sucks and licks at the head and jerks his shaft hard with one hand. His hips try to rise and Tommy shoves him down and finally he comes, whining high in his throat, fist thumping against the bed. 

Tommy swallows, over and over, the taste and smell hot in his throat. He pulls back, unsteady, re-assessing. His head is spinning and Lovett’s spread out in front of him, thighs splayed, dick pink and spent, a hickey on his inner thigh Tommy barely remembers putting there. His belly’s heaving as he breathes. He’s covered his face again, with both hands this time. 

“Christ,” he says, weakly. He blows out a breath that turns into a helpless laugh. “Tommy.” 

Tommy sits up, wiping his mouth and his wet chin with his hand. His cock’s stiff between his legs, a distant throb that feels more immediate when he puts his hand around it and squeezes. 

Lovett uncovers his eyes, peeks at him. “You want me to-“ 

“Just stay like that,” Tommy says, voice breaking. “Stay just like that.” 

Lovett looks scared. “What?” 

“Stay-“ Tommy leans down, catching himself with an elbow on the bed next to Lovett’s head. He starts to stroke himself. “Like that. God, Lovett.” 

Lovett’s still for a moment and then he reaches up to cup Tommy’s face in his hands. He pulls him down into a soft kiss, hand sliding to the back of Tommy’s head and scratching gently. The contrast to how tight and fast Tommy’s touching himself is - awful, it makes Tommy want to cry again. 

“That was so good,” Lovett breathes against his mouth. “You were so good.” 

“Please,” Tommy chokes. His arm’s burning but he doesn’t slow down. He’s close, just from sucking Lovett off, just from Lovett’s hands in his hair and Lovett saying he’s good. Tommy doesn’t feel good all the time. 

“So good,” Lovett whispers. “Tommy-“ 

“Fuck,” Tommy chokes, head dropping to Lovett’s shoulder. “Please, Jon.” 

Lovett runs his hand down the back of Tommy’s neck and squeezes hard, nails digging in with a sharp bite of pain, and Tommy cries out and comes. He strokes it out onto Lovett’s stomach and Lovett holds him by the back of his neck, steady. 

When he’s done he tries to push himself up and he can’t, arms like jelly from the push-ups and from coming. He slips back down in bed, over Lovett, puts his face in Lovett’s neck. 

“Sorry,” he says, stupidly. 

“For what? Sucking my dick?” 

Tommy chokes a laugh that’s too close to a sob. What is he sorry for? For needing this, probably. For coming to LA and needing this so fucking badly. He’s sorry Lovett is lonely. He’s sorry for always making things weird. 

“Nothing,” he says. He rests his cheek against Lovett’s chest and breathes. 

“You’re crushing me, you could be sorry for that.” 

Tommy laughs again, shuts his eyes. “Not sorry for that.” 

Lovett flicks his ear, and then taps his fingers down Tommy’s back, strokes down his spine. Tommy smiles against him. 

“I’m glad you’re here too,” Lovett says, haltingly. “Things are kind of, um. Rough. But it’s nice when you’re here.” 

He goes quiet and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut hard. What does that mean? What's it mean that Lovett is unhappy and Tommy's pretty fucking unhappy too but they're both in the places they're meant to be? 

Probably nothing. That's just - life, right. Life is staying in your place and serving to the best of your ability. Enjoying it when it feels good and putting your head down and getting through it when it doesn't. 

Tommy's phone buzzes and he lifts his head. 

"Duty calls," Lovett says wryly, like he's inside Tommy's head. He strokes his hair. "I'm gonna go make coffee." 

Tommy nods and lifts himself up enough so Lovett can slide out from under him. He flops back down, exhales slow. He could fall back asleep right now, even though he's sticky and the sheets are wet. He could sleep for as long as he wants. He's on fucking vacation, he's earned this. 

He draws in a breath and fumbles for his phone on the nightstand. Lovett's right. Duty calls. 


End file.
